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"Never be worried.”
He surges up, crushing his lips against mine as he grips my waist. My hips move underneath his urging, rocking me back and forth against the stiff ridge of his cock. My panties stick to me, and the extra friction is both maddening and delicious, all at once.
I break from his kiss long enough to speak. "You have me forever. You always have."
He rolls us over and pushes his hand roughly between our bodies. He works my panties to the side, and I claw at the top of his underwear. Gasping, I grip him and press the head of him against my core, and he thrusts his hips and pushes inside me.Oh my God. It’s a first, Brant giving me himself bare. Even though I've had it with Lee, it's different. Everything has always been different between them. How they kiss, the places they touch, the way they fuck. Brant shoves deeper inside and I open my legs and cry out his name as he thrusts his possession in with strokes that reprint his name on my soul.
Without the lies, without the secrets ... it’s better than it’s ever been. I break beneath his body and sign away the last bit of my heart to this man. This complicated, layered, brilliant man. The owner of my soul. Forever.
Chapter 78
On Wednesday Dr. Terra flew in from Dallas. We had spoken to the Dissociate Identity Disorder specialist yesterday and stressed the need for an immediate meeting. Our urgency had been understood, along with the awareness of who Brant was and how deep our pockets were. The man cleared his schedule for the entire week and, if I had to guess, DID billionaires are few and far between.
At the sight of the BSX jet touching down on the private airstrip, Brant rises to his feet and approaches the large window of the lobby. He’s been anxious all morning—we both have been—and I feel a wave of relief at the sight of the Citation jet, slowly rolling down the tarmac. Brant’s fingers are drilling against the side of his slacks and I approach him slowly, watching as he stares out the window, his attention fixed on the plane.
“They made good time.” I loop my arm around his and hug it, hoping to ground him a little. “Got here before the storm.”
“I expected them to. The trajectory of the storm is south-southwest.” He points to the dark cloud that is blackening the horizon. “And that’s why they landed this direction, so they’d be facing into the wind. Last night I read the FAA’s pilot’s handbook of aeronautical knowledge. I’ve been thinking about getting my pilot’s license. What do you think?” He turns to face me, his face intent as he waited for my opinion.
Last night, I saw the light on in the library, but assumed he was reading some of the psychology journals and textbooks there. They were all ones I’d already read, ones I'd purchased in the last couple of years. There weren’t any clear answers in there, but I had still expected that he would dive into them. Instead, he’d been reading about aerodynamic theory and thinking about flying planes. I smile at the absurdity of it. “I think you’d make a great pilot.”
“You do?” He seems unsure and he's different off the medication. I’m still learning his cues, his reactions to things. He talks more and smiles easily—even on a week like this one when there’s not much to smile about.
I loop my hand through his and we wait by the concierge desk, watching as a short Nigerian man descends from the plane and strides down the path toward the FBO. He spots us as soon as he steps through the revolving glass door and onto the polished white marble of the lobby. I smooth down the front of my plum-colored silk blouse as he approaches.
"Good afternoon." He beams, and his teeth are impossibly white and straight. "Brant Sharp, I presume?"
"Yes. This is my fiancée, Layana Fairmont."
His palm is cool and small, his grip firm. I smile and meet his eyes. "Pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He nods quickly, rubbing his hands together and watching as our pilot appears with his leather duffel. "Of course, of course. I’m anxious to get to know you both."
"My car's out front," Brant says and gestures to the exit. "Let's head to the house. We can dive into everything on the way."
* * *
Brant yanks his G Wagon into drive and the SUV purrs to attention. The doctor quickly reaches for his seat belt and clips it into place. The armored SUV had been a recent purchase—one that had sat, practically untouched, in one of the garage bays. Brant and I don’t really have friends, we rarely have a reason to need more than the two comfortable seats in his Aston Martin. I run my hand over the quilted leather of the backseat realizing I can’t hear any noise from the outside, not even the 787 that is taking off right outside the tinted window. The soundproofing is incredible. Still not worth the exorbitant price tag, but incredible all the same. Maybe it’s the bulletproof panels and glass, able to block both high caliber rounds and the pesky sounds of real life.
"My primary objective is to fix this as soon as possible. I've cleared everything else off my plate to focus on this.” Brant glances over at the doctor and I can’t help but admire how handsome his strong profile is.
"Fix this?” Dr. Terra questions. "You mean, removal of your additional personalities?"
I bite the inside of my cheek as Brant brakes at the exit of the private lot, his fingers drumming the wheel impatiently as the gate slowly opens. Patience is Brant's weak point, in all areas of study. I can already predict his frustration at catching the doctor up on the history and details of our situation. So far, he’s been annoyed at a dozen everyday inconveniences that Jillian used to handle. It’s just growing pains, we’ll sort and smooth everything out with money and employees, but money can't walk Dr. Terra through Brant's past. Money can't fix the fact that, right now, my man feels broken.
As soon as the gate opening is wide enough, Brant floors the gas.
* * *
"Dissociative Identity Disorder is not an easily fixed affliction. While other psychiatric disorders can be controlled by medication, DID is not a 'curable' disease. The original medication you were given as a child, I have to assume, was depressants, given to a level that would have dulled any personalities to a point where they were undistinguishable from your core personality. It makes you a bit of a—if I can use laymen’s terms—a zombie. Obviously, that's not a solution worth exploring."
Brant's hand tightens around the pen in his fist, the flex of his forearm distractingly attractive. I place my hand on his arm and squeeze the muscle there.
Brant's gaze jumps from my hand to Dr. Terra's face, then to the garden view. His office’s floor-to-ceiling windows do a stunning job of showcasing the three-story greenhouse that straddles the space between this wing and the next, and right now the vivid purple violets and blood-orange hibiscus are in full bloom.
"So what solutionisworth exploring?" Brant finally asks, his pen poised over the page, ready to write notes on the response.
"Intensive therapy. It's not sexy and it takes time, but it has the highest probability of success. I’ll create a plan, one with schedule sessions with a local psychiatrist. Initially, you’ll need to meet with them at least three times a week. There will be a series of hypnosis sessions in which the doctor will speak to you and Lee and counsel you both through the process.”
